


A Scandal At Bohemian Records

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blackmail, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Holmes, Genderfluid Sherlock, M/M, Musicians, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Referenced Assault, Sex Tapes, Story: A Scandal in Bohemia, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, kind of sort of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Watson going back to medical school while paying off his debts, and Holmes' cases few and far between, the pair are broke. So when the owner of Bohemian Records offers to hire them to retrieve a copy of a sex tape he made with singer Irene Adler, they take the case despite their distaste for their client. <br/>They are not out to prevent a scandal, but to protect the rising star.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scandal At Bohemian Records

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is turning out to be both very hard, and very therapeutic to write. I've been writing Holmes as genderfluid or agender from day one, but this is the first time, either in a modern au or canon fic, that I've really gotten to run with it.

Sherlock Holmes and I had not seen much of each other lately. Cases kept him out to all hours of the day and night, and I had been working three jobs to try to pay for school and rent. When I wasn’t filing paperwork at the hospital, I was pouring beer at a pub or digging holes. I studied on my breaks and read my books aloud to record so I could listen to them when I went from job to job. By the time I got home at night, I usually fell asleep before I managed to undress. Holmes tried his best to cover where I fell short, but his own work was never steady and often didn’t pay. 

It was a damp March evening, and I had gotten off the bus a few stops early to allow a group of elderly tourists to file on. I managed not to stumble over my own feet as I made my way along Baker Street. The chilly air cut through my scrubs, so I picked up my pace to get home. 

From across the street, I could see a light through the windows and Holmes passing back and forth in front of them. He was chewing on his nails, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Our first anniversary had passed -thankfully celebrated together- just two weeks earlier. Over that past year, I felt as if I have learned all of Holmes’ habits and moods. At a glance I could tell that he was deep in thought, but not over any sort of serious trouble. He was likely puzzling over some new chemical experiment or working out a complex melody in his head.

In my haste to get inside and have him in my arms, I took my headphones off and trotted across the street, where I narrowly avoided getting hit by a passing motorcycle. I was too drained to do more than flip a weary, two-fingered salute at the back of the helmet as it sped off toward Marylebone. 

To the public, Holmes could be withdrawn, even quiet. This was often mistaken for moroseness on his part. It was true that Holmes suffered from depression, which could be very serious from time to time, but with my coaxing, he usually kept to his medication. They didn’t work to cure him by any means, but the stretches between his dark moods were getting longer and his drops no longer lasted for weeks on end. 

Holmes in private was a completely different creature. 

“I didn’t think you’d be home for another hour!” Holmes grinned and vaulted the coffee table. 

I staggered back and hit the wall from the force of his embrace. He hopped up to perch on my hips, wrapping his arms around my neck and not seeming to notice the fact that he was more than six feet tall and not exactly light. I held him under his arse to support his weight and pushed off from the wall to carry him back into the living room. 

“I finished up work early today, since it was mostly discharge papers.” I explained, boosting him a bit higher with one arm so I could drop my bag on my chair. “I wasn’t expecting you to be home when I got here.” 

My stomach rumbled, but I ignored it in favour of tipping my head back to let Holmes kiss me. I had missed shaving the last couple of days, so my cheeks were rough with stubble. Rather than put him off, Holmes practically purred and rubbed against it. 

He wiggled down from my hips and looked me over with a critical eye. My scrubs fit poorly and were not a flattering colour, and I still had a stain on the front of the top where the ward sister had bumped into me, spilling her coffee. My hair was sticking up with a part across the top of my skull from my headphones. It really was unfair to be standing there next to Holmes who looked as lovely as ever. 

He put his hands on my waist and frowned, then reached around to cup my bum. “Has it really been that long since we had sex?” He sounded utterly dismayed as he gave me a squeeze. “You’ve lost seven… No... Seven and a half pounds. You are working too hard, Watson.” 

I looked down at myself and clicked my tongue over my teeth. I hadn’t noticed any changes in my figure, but I could trust Holmes’ word for it. He could tell with ease whether I had put enough sugar in my coffee in the morning, or notice how many times I’d run up a flight of stairs during a shift. It must have been a simple thing for him to see how much weight I’ve lost, especially considering how often he saw and touched me naked. 

Lifting my shirt, I poked at my belly and sides. “Yeah, I suppose I have. Burning the candle at both ends, I guess. Probably doesn’t really help that the last thing I ate was half a Mars bar that I found in your desk drawer and that I’m _really_ __ hoping wasn’t a month old.” 

With his lips pressed out in a moue of distaste, Holmes reached up to smooth my hair down. “Go sit down, I’ll fix you something to eat.” He ushered me into my chair and poured me a rye and ginger before going downstairs to our landlady’s flat. 

I struggled to keep my eyes open, the little domestic sounds coming from downstairs helping me to relax. If I tilted my head to the side and let my mind drift, I could almost pretend Holmes was chattering pleasantly, rather than swearing at a tomato for not cutting smoothly. 

My head hit the back of the chair and I slouched down, oozing comfortably into place. Eyes unfocused, I stared at a stain on the carpet just in front of Holmes’ chair and slid into that familiar sort of trance state that helped me rest while on a long shift. I don’t know how long I was slipping in and out of sleep before I heard a violin screech. Either someone was about to get stabbed in a shower, or Holmes was getting an email. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” I hissed and jumped up, dropping my empty glass to the floor. My drink was now all over my lap and my scrub bottoms quickly molded to my cock. “Your phone is ringing!” I shouted down the stairs when the phone went off again, vibrating its way across the stack of papers on the desk. 

“Then answer it,” Holmes called back in a sing-song voice over the sound of dishes clattering together. 

Holding my waistband out away from my stomach I muttered under my breath and picked up his mobile. “What did your last servant die of?” I grumbled and drew the swirling design on the screen that served Holmes as a pass code to unlock it. 

“A poisoned snack,” Holmes replied sweetly from just behind me, reaching around to offer me my sandwich. 

“I’ll take my chances.” I said with a snort and pushed my scrubs to the floor. With a hand free and my prick drying off, I took the plate. 

“What’s the email?” Holmes asked, jerking his chin at my phone. He took my clothes and tossed them in the direction of the stairs. 

“Gimme a minute, will you?” I groused around a mouthful of toast and tomato and sat back down. Snaking an arm around Holmes’ waist, I tugged him down to sit on my knee. 

Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I nodded. “Okay, it’s your work email.” 

Holmes looked at the screen and made a little sound at the back of his throat. “What’s it say?” he asked and chewed on his bottom lip, his piercing clacking against his front teeth. 

I scanned through the email with a frown. The grammar and structure of it was confusing, and it took me a second readthrough to understand what was being said. 

“There will arrive at thirty past eight o’clock,” it read, making me feel tongue tied and frustrated. “A client that wished to consult you on a subject of high importance. We knew that you are expected to be discreet and efficient. This information of you we have from all sources heard. Be available in your rooms at this time to receive your client.” 

The email didn’t have a signature, and I didn’t recognise the sender’s address. 

Holmes tugged on his lip ring, spinning the tiny bead around the hoop. “Are you sure you read it exactly as it was written?” he asked. 

I swallowed my last bite of my sandwich and grunted an affirmative. “Yeah, that’s how it was sent.” I rubbed my hand up and down Holmes’ back. The words in the email were so disjointed and out of order that Holmes probably never would have been able to read it. They had given me enough trouble. 

“A German client, then.” Holmes huffed out and checked his watch. “A German client who thinks that we have nothing better to do with our time than hang around the flat waiting for them to show up.” 

“To be fair, they’re right with that one.” I pointed out, poking my head over his arm to see the time. They would be arriving in less than twenty minutes. “Short of sleeping after the laziest bout of sex ever, I didn’t exactly have anything planned for tonight. How did you know they’re German?”

Holmes huffed again. “The sentence structure. Verbs and subjects often get switched for ESL speaking Germans.” he explained, twisting his hand back and forth to demonstrate. 

“Like Yoda, Germans speak?” I clarified. 

Breaking into a grin, Holmes nodded and tousled my hair. “So clever, you are.” 

I tried to smooth my hair down, only to have it puff back up in defiance. “They’re going to be showing up soon, I should probably get dressed. Unless you want me greeting our new client looking like I pissed myself.” I jostled Holmes on my knee until he took the hint and got off my lap. 

The air was cold on my bare arse as I made my way upstairs to our bedroom, pausing to scoop up my scrubs. I stripped out of my top and shoes, dropping the clothes in the hamper. From the side table I found some wet wipes and used them to scrub off the ginger ale that was drying sticky in my pubic hair. Under the attention and friction, my cock perked up slightly. It decided that I was too tired to deal with a full erection, and hung limp against my thigh once more.

“I know, mate. Me too,” I murmured while pulling on a pair of pants. 

Holmes was sitting at the window seat with Mrs. Hudson’s cat on his lap, puffing on one of his more pungent cigarettes as he looked down on the street. He smiled at me through his reflection in the window and boosted the cat up to his shoulder. 

“Your client’s going to be here shortly.” I said and crossed the room.

“Actually,” he rapped his knuckles on the glass to point out something down on the street. “I believe that would be him there.” Holmes let out a low whistle before putting the cat down and pressing against the window. “A Porsche 911. S model, with the sport exhaust.  A hundred twenty grand, easy. If nothing else, there’s going to be money in this case.” 

I peered over Holmes’ shoulder to see the white car rumble up in front of the flat. I felt my Oyster card burning a middle class hole in my back pocket. “I think I should leave you to it, for this one.” 

Holmes stopped his swooning over the car and turned to me with a frown. “Don’t be daft, you’ll stay right here with me. I am lost without my Boswell.” I cast Holmes a long stare until he shifted in place with a blush rising high on his cheeks. “Boswell is-” 

“I know who Boswell is, you sap.” I grinned and leaned down to press a kiss to his brow. “And here I thought you hated my writing. But what if he doesn’t want me here?” 

He shooed me into my chair where I made myself comfortable. “Immaterial. I want you here.” 

After butting out his cigarette, Holmes smoothed down his shirt, looking down at himself with a wince. We usually didn’t get private clients in the flat this late, and the members of the official police who came at all hours were more than used to conducting business with Holmes while he was in his pyjamas, or a dressing gown, or on one memorable occasion when he was in just his pants while I sat by, trying desperately to keep a straight face. A client who drove a car worth more than I would make at any of my jobs in five years, would likely not look on Holmes’ ink- and acid-stained  _ Firefly  _ shirt and faded jeans with much respect. 

There wasn’t much time to worry about it before we heard a footfall on the stair followed by a loud knock at our door. Without waiting for an invitation, or newest client pushed open the door and stepped into our living room. 

He hardly fit in the doorframe at close to six foot six, with the shoulders and neck of a bull. To go by the softness of his stomach and the way he kept his thighs open as he stood, I would lay good odds that the muscles straining at the sleeves of his suit jacket came more from a syringe rather than much personal effort. 

The suit was made of silk in Prussian blue, and looked like it would feel wet if I touched it. It strained over his arms and chest, the buttons nearly popping open. The shirt, tie, and waistcoat were all in different shades of blue that didn’t quite fit together. I was surprised that a boutique owner would let a customer leave their shop in such poorly fitted clothes, especially considering that the entire outfit probably cost more than we paid for rent over several months. 

“You got my email?” he asked with a frown, looking from me to Holmes, trying to decide which of us he should be addressing. His accent was thick, almost comical when he spoke. Holmes could likely trace it back to his childhood street, but to me it sounded like a typical Bavarian accent. 

“Obviously, I did.” Holmes perched on the arm of his chair and gestured to the empty seat near mine where he usually put our clients. He flicked on the lamp behind him so he could see the man in higher detail. “This is John Watson,” Holmes gestured to me with a little glint in his eye and the beginning of a smirk. “We work together, among other things. And you are…?” 

The chair creaked under the man’s weight as he shifted to frown at me. “This is a-” The frown deepened. “A delicate situation. I would rather speak just with you, Mr. Holmes.” 

Tutting, I rolled my good shoulder and moved to stand up, but Holmes darted forward before I had a chance and grabbed my arm. He pushed me back into place before sitting down on the arm of my chair instead. “When you hire me, you hire him. If you wish to speak with me, you will need to trust that you can say any of it in front of him as well.” Holmes tucked his feet under my thigh and braced his elbows on his knees. 

“I then have no other choice.” he muttered and drummed the fingers of one hand on the other. “I need this to remain a secret.” 

By now, Holmes had closed his eyes and for all intents, appeared to have gone to sleep. He wrinkled his nose. “You haven’t given us your name yet, so that much is clear,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. 

I could see the look of frustration on our client’s face when he looked at Holmes. He was probably comparing the stories he had heard of him, the brain and the energy and the skill, to the sleepy looking young man with his hair mussed and cigarette ash on his shirt. 

“Thank you, dear.” Holmes smiled when I brushed the mess off his clothes. “Now, Mr. von Ormstein, if you could give me the facts of the case, I would like to get started. My time is valuable.” 

I grabbed Holmes by the arms, prepared to push him to the floor out of the way when our client lunged to his feet, his face turning red with anger. I didn’t let him go until the man sank back to his seat. 

Our client continued to glower and fume, but he crossed his enormous arms over his chest with a jerky nod. “Yes, I can’t deny it. But how did you know who I am?” 

Holmes closed his eyes briefly, probably to keep from rolling them. “If you want to keep your identity secret, you might want to consider not appearing on television.” he muttered dryly. “I saw the interview you did the day before yesterday.” 

I must have shown my confusion, because Holmes nudged me with his knee. “Watson, this is Wilhelm von Ormstein. He’s the owner of Bohemian Records. It was a smallish organisation, until a couple years back when they signed on a few big name musicians. One band went on to do the soundtrack to one of those comic book films, and that led to more and more musicians signing on. Over two years, it exploded in popularity.” 

“As you may understand, I am unused to doing this type of thing on my own.” von Ormstein scrubbed his hands over his face then laced his fingers together, letting them dangle between his spread knees. “But I trust this not to my assistant. If he found out what I tell you he may sell the knowledge. I will be ruined.” 

“He won’t hear of this from us,” Holmes told him, gesturing for him to continue before steepling his fingers under his chin, tapping on his jaw with his thumbs. “Tell us why you need our help.”

“You know much about my company, so I am sure that you know that we recently signed Irene Adler to a contract.” 

“Adler. The name is familiar. Watson?” 

Her name was more than just familiar to me. I let out a long whistle, then lifted Holmes out of my way so I could go to fetch my laptop. “I know you’ve heard her, Holmes.” I told him as I typed her in her name. Within a few seconds, I was given a collection of songs and music videos for her band, Adventuress. Clicking on the first one in the list, I turned the speakers up for Holmes to hear the rich contralto voice. It wasn’t the husky rasp of a smoke filled room, but more smooth and velvety. 

“She’s from New Jersey,” I explained, resting my chin on my hand after humming along to the song. “Before she started up her band, she was with a stage singer. Did a bit of chorus work on Broadway, I think.” 

Holmes had come to stand behind me, his hands on my shoulders while he leaned over to watch. I felt his chin stir my hair as he tilted his head to the side in that almost avian expression of his he got when he was working something out. 

Irene Adler was beautiful. She wore her thick, dark brown hair in tumbling waves over her shoulders. When she sang, she buried her fingers into it, looking as if the music was physically touching her. More often than not, she wore torn jeans and battered Chucks, paired with one of her collection of graphic shirts and scarves. She was slim and tall, with gravity defying long legs.

I winced when I felt Holmes’ nails dig into my shoulders. 

“She’s in London now?” 

Von Ormstein huffed out an affirmative. “She is here so I am here.” 

“What does she have on you?” Holmes asked flatly and straightened up. 

“How could you-”

“Don’t be tedious. You don’t get to your position in the entertainment business without someone having dirt on you. What is it, a photograph? A letter? A video-”

Our client flinched and his face turned a pasty shade of grey. 

“Ah. A video, then. What did you do, hide a camera on your desk during a meeting?” Holmes snapped. 

“It wasn’t a meeting, no. After Irene signed the contract, we had a brief affair. A very brief affair.” As he spoke, he rubbed his thumb over a gold band on his left hand and I could almost _hear_ Holmes rolling his eyes behind me. 

“So she has a copy of it. And she is now using it as leverage to get out of a contract.” Holmes supplied. “If you don’t let her out of the contract, she will send the video to your wife.” 

Lips pressed in a line, von Ormstein tugged at the end of his tie a few times before smoothing it out again. “It is not so simple a thing. I could explain to my wife, an… An indiscretion. But there is more to this than a small slip up.” 

The giant of a man fidgeted in the chair before he stood and dug into one of the inner pockets of his jacket, producing a small flash drive.  “Easier to show than to explain.” He tossed me the drive and I plugged it in. 

Holmes squeaked in dismay and turned around. “I will take your word for it! I don’t need to see the video!” His voice cracked and I’m sure his cheeks were flaming red with embarrassment. 

My gun was safely stowed upstairs in my side table drawer, so I eyed one of the fire pokers against the hearth, in case I needed to subdue our client after seeing what it was he needed hidden from the world. 

I opened the only file on the drive and crossed my arms, drumming my fingers on my biceps. It was grainy, the audio terrible, but if I cocked my head to the left I could make out a hotel bed. A slender body hit the mattress followed by a peal of giggles. I turned the speakers back down so the sound was muffled when I heard Holmes shifting uncomfortably against my back. 

Scrolling over the progress bar, I looked at the thumbnails so I could skip ahead until both Irene and von Ormstein were on the screen, their faces unmistakable as they stripped each other. 

“Oh,” I breathed out and paused the video when Irene shed her jeans. 

“Oh?” Holmes elbowed my shoulder. “Oh, what? What are you getting so worked up over?” He dared a peek at the laptop.

I had paused the video. It showed Irene on the bed, our client mostly out of view save for his knees and one hand. Irene wore a lacy green bra with a pair of matching panties that were part way down her hips, showing a circumcised, erect penis in a nest of curly black hair. 

“Are you fussing about her genitals?” Holmes demanded, sounding genuinely flustered and annoyed that no one was answering him. 

“Yes,” growled von Ormstein. He had begun to pace a small circle on our carpet, his expression cloudy. “Yes, her…” he waved his hands in the direction of the computer then to his own groin. “She is _he,_ ” he finally spat out. 

When Holmes stiffened like he had been smacked, I realised that the poker wouldn’t have been good enough. Reminding myself that it would look poorly on our growing practice if I were to club a potential client unconscious with a chair, I took the drive from my computer and flipped it over my fingers a few times while I thought things over. Holmes was still frozen, so I looked to von Ormstein. “What have you done so far, to try to get her copy?” 

He didn’t seem to notice the chill that had fallen over the room. “I have paid to have her rooms searched. When she arrived in London, I arranged to have her… What is the word? Mugged? There was no sign of her copy.” 

“You’ve…” Holmes cleared his throat quietly, but when he spoke, his voice was still shaking slightly. “You’ve made a great mess of things. Are you certain that she hasn’t sent it already?” 

“My wife would have said if she had seen me in that video.” 

“And when do you negotiate her new contract?” 

“A week from Friday.” 

Holmes sniffed. “We have plenty of time, then. Our payment?” 

My eyes went wide. I had thought Holmes would refuse the case from such a man. 

“I’ll pay you any fee, if you can get her copy.” 

I admit that my palms went a bit moist at that. 

“We’ll need an advance, to pay for any expenses that occur during the investigation.” 

He took out his wallet and my moist palms practically sluiced off my lap when I saw the fold of bills he withdrew and handed to Holmes. 

Von Ormstein was preparing to leave after giving us his contact details when Holmes stopped him. “One last question. Her copy, is it on a flash drive like yours?” he asked. 

“It is. I gave her the copy when she found the camera. She is so in love, she wanted to have her own proof of what we did,” he chuckled, and I wondered if I could throw a chair across the room, but he was already out the door and down the stairs before I could have a chance to pick it up. 

I stood from behind the desk and dragged my fingers down my chest then slid them up into my hair. “You’re really going to take this case, Holmes?” I finally asked, turning to where he was staring down at the fold of bills in his hand. “Even with how he feels?” 

It took a moment for Holmes to snap out of his head, but he eventually blinked slowly at me. “This is just the advance, Watson.” he said, waving the money. “And it’s more than we’ve earned for any case so far. I can charge him whatever I want when I get the video.” I expected a malicious glint in his eyes, yet all I saw was tired sadness. 

I ignored the money and took Holmes in my arms. Cradling the back of his head, I slid my fingers into his silky black hair. “I don’t want you to sell yourself out. I know this won’t be an easy one for you.” The point of his chin fit between my thumb and forefinger and I lifted his face up. “We don’t need the money that badly.”

“The hell we don’t, Watson. You’ve slept probably nine hours in the last week, and you’ve been skipping meals to help stretch our food budget.” 

I winced at that, having hoped that he hadn’t noticed. I should have known better. 

Holmes tucked the money in his wallet which he locked in the top drawer on his side of the desk. “It’s not just about the money, love,” he sighed and stood straight again. Taking me by the hand he led me to my chair where he curled up, trying to make himself small enough to fit in my lap. “Bad enough he’s filmed them together, but this Miss Adler has been assaulted more than once to get that video back. And he only wants it back because of her gender. If she had a vagina, he would be laughing it off with his friends and buying his wife a shiny bauble to apologise and it would be like it had never happened.” 

I would never be able to fully understand Holmes’ experiences with this, but I had been there with him when a fun evening out had ended with him covered in beer and bruises, his skirt nearly torn off. It had been the most frightening night in our relationship, and the first time I ever saw Holmes in tears as he wrapped my bloody knuckles in gauze. 

“I can stop that from happening to her again, at least over this.” 


End file.
